Bronze Gods (18 page)

“If so,” she said aloud, “then I’m lucky to be alive.”

If the charm had been working, Mr. Gideon wouldn’t have noticed her predicament. By this time, the worst of the queasiness had passed, leaving her exhausted. Her knees were watery as she climbed out of the carriage to pay the driver. She gave him a generous tip and trudged the last few feet to the Royale, then fumbled in her bag for the key to the side door. The shadows were deep and long, and she had that awful, creepy feeling again, as if someone was watching her.

Theron? What if it’s been him, all along? What if he’s hunting me, along with that other “special person”?
The idea was terrifying and twisted, if he’d been following her for months, making her wonder whether she was going mad, only to step into her life while playing these dreadful games. Her heart was pounding like crazy by the time she got the key into the lock and dashed into the building.

It was late, so there were no rehearsals, just a dark and unnerving theater; Leo didn’t pay for lights he wasn’t using. To combat her sudden, irrational terror, she focused on what she knew existed in the impenetrable shadows. Aurelia moved out of the wings onto the stage. Though she couldn’t make out the details, the dais on which she stood possessed a pagoda-like roof and columns at each end. To the untutored eye, they might look like marble in the daylight, but Aurelia knew it was green oak, cunningly finished until footlights completed the illusion. As her eyes adjusted, she caught glimpses that suggested motion from the velvet drapes to the catwalk overhead.

It’s the wind and your imagination. There’s no one here but Leo . . . and possibly Elaine. Find him.

Downstairs and through the hidden door, her footsteps rang loud and quick in the silent halls. Fortunately, she knew the turns down to his secret room and could navigate them in the dark. Farther in, there were lamps lit, as Elaine wouldn’t come into the subterranean gloom Leo truly craved, some manifestation of his guilt, Aurelia suspected. Any other day, she might even tease him about it, trying to get him to smile.

Not tonight.

Once she could see properly, she broke into a run, not even trying to disguise her desperation. Others might see a wounded man, a broken one, but Leonidas had always represented safety, ever since she turned her back on the Olrik legacy. That much hadn’t changed. She burst into his room without knocking, even knowing they might be engaged in behavior best not interrupted. Fortunately, it was only dinner, and Elaine gaped at her, a chicken leg halfway to her mouth.

Leo sprang to his feet, his masked gaze sweeping her in a lightning assessment. “Auri? Are you well?”

“No,” she said shakily.

For the first time, she realized her palms were bleeding, that she’d torn the fabric of her skirt, and there were smears of red there, too. Bronze gods only knew what she’d gotten on her clothing during the walk into and out of the Patchwork District. Her whole body hurt from the fall, and she was frightened as she’d never been in her life, as if there were no safe place left to hide.

“Elaine, go home. Take your meal if you like.” Leo dismissed his mistress with a casual gesture, one that would cost him later in baubles or jewelry.

The dancer departed with a glare and a flounce, then Leo gathered Aurelia close. Though he wasn’t the charming man she’d known before, he was still strong and comforting. His arms felt like the only haven she could trust. She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Tell me when you’re ready. I’m here.”

Belatedly, she remembered a long-ago conversation with her father. She had often wished for another gift, one less painful, because people lied
all
the time; it was as natural as breathing. Her father, so distant and dispassionate, had said it was because nobody could bear complete truth. Possibly, he had been right, because she’d been happier not knowing how dangerous Theron truly was. It had been better when she’d considered their exchanges a simple game, not a mortal struggle where the stakes were life and death.

Sometimes, the lie is safer.

CHAPTER 17

T
HE
S
UMMER
L
ADY LAUGHED, AND HER PEOPLE CELEBRATED WITH HER:
another cycle had come and gone, and the Courts met once more to renew their treaties of peace and restate their declarations of ancient war. The gathered hosts raised their faces to the rain and danced, screamed their defiance to their brothers and sisters.

Across the headland, Winter cheered—the banners of a dozen powerful families waved and whipped in greeting, their cries mingling with the wind. They surged toward one another, then, a slow and steady pace to the beat of the hammering rain and screaming thunderclaps. Splashing and calling challenges as the distance shortened; nobles on steeds. Behind them came towering, lumbering creatures of rock and moss. Translucent sylphs wove through the spray, forms of mist and swirling droplets.

In trying to circle around the Host of Winter, a small hobgoblin troop spotted the strangers moving in the hills. Calls of wonder and alarm spread like wildfire. The whole procession went to the cliffs, trolls carrying sprites alongside skittering shadow forms. They gathered, Summer Court mingling with Winter, old feuds and vows forgotten as they watched the bearded invaders march on their revels. The invaders looked up, weathered faces squinting against the storm. Raising dread iron blades, they roared a challenge to the figures on the cliffs.

“There will be war,” said the Summer Lady.

“So be it,” the Winter Lord replied.

•   •   •

M
IKANI JOLTED AWAKE,
the midmorning light falling into his eyes like shards of ice. For a moment, he couldn’t hear for his own heartbeat, couldn’t remember what day it was or what was real. These visions came at irregular, inconvenient times; he had no idea what they meant. At some point, perhaps when he wasn’t so sore, he’d investigate.

He ground the palms of his hands against burning eyes and rolled out of bed with a groan. His ribs ached, the multitude of cuts burned, even with the dressings and salves Ritsuko had applied the night before. He braced his side, feeling out the edges of the bandages, and smiled faintly.
Gods and spirits, what’s wrong with me?
He never allowed anyone to tend to him. Even after he was stabbed by some mercenaries over a card game, he’d holed up on his own until he could walk again. No doctor. He’d stitched the wound himself, bore the scar to this day.

I trust her. Like no one before.

He shook his head and rose, swaying slightly. Ritsuko had gone home last night, shortly after midnight, despite his protests that she was welcome to his sofa. The mystery of how his partner had wriggled so far under his skin had to wait, as hell would freeze before he let a mere suspension keep him from investigating two murders, currently left to Shelton and Cutler.

If that pair could solve the case of the missing pastry, I’d be entirely astonished.

Long practice let him shower and dress quickly, so, walking stick in hand, he headed toward Electra’s midtown address within half an hour. Each step hurt. He considered stopping to purchase some Dreamers, but after a moment’s consideration, he chose the pain. Guilt kept him clean and sober, out of respect for her memory. Elsewhere, the Summer Clan would be mourning with strong drink, dancing, and endless stories. In that vein, Mikani could only
remember
her; the last time he’d been to Electra’s flat, it was a warm night, no clouds.

“You don’t have to see me home,” Electra had said. “I take the underground at this hour all the time.”

“It’s my fault it took you so long to close up. I’ll be a gentleman for once.”

She’d flashed him a mischievous look. “No nonsense. My uncle would kill you.”

Mikani had laughed. But as promised, he’d taken her home and left her politely at the front door. He had genuinely liked Electra. Possibly Bihár had sensed as much when he accepted the blood vow. He was so lost in the memory that he didn’t realize his feet had carried him to the café until he was standing under the bright awning. He swore under his breath and nearly turned away. Since he passed it every day on the way to headquarters, he had to deal with the new reality sooner or later.

Inside, a new girl was tending shop, very young, in tight braids and with a woolen shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

“Good morning, sir. What will you have? We have biscuits, fresh made. And, there’s fruit.”

“I’ll just—”

“Also, the teas are lovely. And fresh brewed. You could use a mint tea, I’m thinking.”

“No, I don’t—”

“Herbal tea? With some toast—”

Mikani slammed his hand on the counter, bringing the girl up short. “Coffee. Black. Unsweetened. Thank you.”

As she scurried away, he swore under his breath.
That didn’t go well.
Some might appreciate her well-intended suggestions, but he missed Electra. A few minutes later, the waitress brought a cup overflowing with coffee, but it wasn’t strong the way he liked it. This was a weak brew, a possible economy on the part of the owners, but Electra had made it fierce enough to stand a spoon. With a faint sigh, he edged the saucer away untouched and left a few coins before striding out.

Don’t know if I’ll be back anytime soon.

As if stopping at the café hadn’t been depressing enough, he still had to sort Electra’s flat. Mikani doubted the family had been there yet; Summer Clan placed little stock on material possessions, and she had been wearing all her tribal tokens when they’d claimed her body.
Still, at least it will give me some peace of mind to ensure that nobody’s stolen whatever else she owned.

It took him half an hour more to find the right door in the warren of apartment buildings, boardinghouses, and family-owned businesses off the Leeward promenade. Her street looked different enough during the day to throw him off. She had never invited him to tea or asked him to visit, but she always seemed happy enough when he arrived for coffee.

A white lie to the landlady about being family—aided by a handful of coins—got him the spare key to Electra’s apartment. She lived on the second story; the building itself was clean and well kept, though the walls were thin. Mikani wondered whether her family had ever visited this place, or if she had been cut off when she settled down.

Inside, her flat was small. He pulled on gloves to avoid inadvertently reading some object, noting the small collection of shells gracing the windowsill and battered writing desk, the cheap prints depicting sailing ships and the docks of Dorstaad looking far cleaner than they did in reality.
I spoke to her two or three times a week. Yet I never knew she loved the ocean.

Mikani peered into the bedroom; it looked as if a cyclone had hit it. He closed the door with reverent care. Elsewhere, scarves and wraparound skirts draped the settee as well as wood chairs in the kitchen. On the table, five cards lay in the shape of a cross, beside a chipped mug. The tea had long since evaporated, leaving dark residue; the cards looked old and worn, well handled. Mikani moved with his gift reined in; even so, the cards called to him. Electra had possessed more than a pretty smile and a gift for telling people what they wanted to hear . . . the dying echoes of magic hummed from her deck.

He slipped a glove off and pressed a fingertip to the center card.

The rush of old impressions was faint, faded. Joy and regret mingled, the faint threads of other emotions ran deep. But it was all her; Electra hadn’t allowed anyone else to handle this deck. He concentrated and laid his palm on the cards, doing his best to touch all five.

Her gift sparked his. He could
see
what she’d divined, and the shock stole his breath. Three girls, their features indistinct, joined by a silvery web. Looking closely at them, he sensed the weight of their families like watchful ghosts. Their figures turned as one, falling from the web; cast out or choosing to walk away from the network of filial obligation to walk their own path.

Electra.
He recognized the arch of her nose and sharp cheekbones. The cards rang faintly with whispers of Cira Aevar’s essence, consistent with traces she’d left in the pink-and-gold bedroom he had read weeks before. Though he didn’t know her face as well as Electra’s, and the impressions were fuzzy, he’d stake a year’s pay that she was the second figure. The third drifted, shifted, and that movement—the very uncertainty of it—made him think she was still alive.

Mikani tried to focus on the last figure, but something blocked him. The more he tried to pin down the fleeting impression, the fainter it became, until his senses flared, slamming him with physical backlash that knocked him into the wall. On top of his existing bruises, the impact stung more than it should have, his ribs protesting in a sharp, red spike.

He struggled to breathe, hugging himself despite the pain; nothing like that had
ever
happened before. Blood trickled from his nose, down his lip, and onto his chest. A jagged band threatened to crush his skull, tightening in rhythm with his hammering heartbeat. He had learned more than he’d bargained for, but he needed a clear head. At the moment, he could barely sit, let alone try and piece together the clues.

Damned be, I need Ritsuko.

•   •   •

W
ITH A QUIET
sigh, Ritsuko stepped into the mirror station. As a public building, it was utilitarian, various kiosks offering multiple courier services, access to the public pneumatic mail, and, of course, the mirror station itself. The bustle of early-afternoon transmissions resulted in a queue, nearly obscuring Mikani from sight. He was slumped on a wrought-iron bench, looking worse for the wear. His bruises had faded a little, turning slightly green, though the scruff on his jaw obscured some of them.
A few more days, and he’ll have a proper beard.

Maybe she ought to feel strange about last night, but it had been . . . companionable. Ritsuko had no regrets. At this point, she was only mildly irritated that he felt entitled to compel her presence by courier.
When we’re not even working.
She had been in the midst of packing her things, as the flat she’d occupied with Warren no longer suited. But part of her didn’t mind the summons, as it was nice to feel indispensable to
someone
. Even a rogue like Mikani.

She threaded through the crowd toward him. His eyes were closed when she approached, but he recognized her anyway. “Ritsuko.”

How does he
do
that?
Not for the first time, she wondered what it would be like to have his extra senses, if it was exhausting, exhilarating, or a combination of the two.

“You look like a dog’s breakfast,” she said.

He scoffed and rose, leaning heavily on his walking stick. The front of his shirt had dark stains. “You always know just what to say to me, partner.” He offered her a wry smirk and headed for the street, limping.

“Is this CID business, or did you miss me?”

She followed him out, wondering at the wisdom of pursuing an investigation from which they had been officially discharged. Yet she couldn’t let it rest, either. The idea that Shelton and Cutler might accidentally stumble over Toombs, after she and Mikani had done all the real work? Ritsuko clenched her teeth.

“Both. I can’t let Shelton and Cutler ruin the case, and I missed your disapproving looks.” He glanced over his shoulder with a teasing air.

“It didn’t occur to you that I might be busy?” she asked, genuinely curious.

He stopped and turned to her, looking puzzled. “No. Were you?”

“Yes, actually. But I’ll always come. I suppose you know that.” She sighed, suspecting he might become unbearable at the statement that he possessed such power. “Soon you’ll have me fetching your laundry and shopping for hats.”

“Now that you mention it, I
do
miss my hat.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “But that can wait. And . . . I’d cook for you, so it works out.” With that, he set out with renewed purpose.

She didn’t recognize this part of Dorstaad. When she was off duty, Ritsuko spent most of her free time within the walls of the Mountain District, safe as her grandfather had wanted. It was no hardship since there were shops, lush parks, and elegant gardens, a respite from the rest of the city. She loved the wonders of the arboretum, with its colossal living houses, trees shaped over long years with art and patience, but it was time to leave the Mountain District. There was a lovely rooming house much closer to HQ; she liked the owner and the tenants. It should be less lonely there.

Mikani led her to an apartment building and hesitated, leaning heavily on his cane, as if he didn’t want to enter. “This is Electra’s flat. I came to see about her things . . . and found more than I bargained for.”

She didn’t comment on the unusual impulse; most times, family gathered the deceased’s personal effects. But the Summer Clan probably wouldn’t take the time, and Mikani likely hated the thought of all Electra’s belongings ending up in the rubbish bin or a rag-and-bone shop. He wouldn’t thank her for noting his sentimentality, however. So instead, she followed him up the stairs and into the apartment, not understanding why he needed her. At the same time, she sensed he wouldn’t have called for no reason; it wasn’t like Mikani to ask for help, ever. So whatever this was, it must be vital.